


The One Where They Get Married

by Ark



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Avengers, Drama, Emotions, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Multi, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Weddings, post-recovery, unabashed fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you ask Tony Stark to be your best man, pretty soon your wedding is out of your hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [stuffimgoingtohellfor](http://stuffimgoingtohellfor.tumblr.com), [reserve](http://reserve.tumblr.com), and [stillwanderingflame](http://stillwanderingflame) for reading this first and listening to me talk about it. 
> 
> An ongoing study in Steve and Bucky getting married. 
> 
> Join me: [ark](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com)

They’re to marry on the Fourth of July, Steve’s birthday. It was supposed to be an intimate affair, but when you ask Tony Stark to be your best man, pretty soon your wedding is out of your hands.

Prospect Park in Brooklyn is settled on as the only conceivable venue. It satisfies the childhood nostalgia, Tony explains, while providing enough open-air space to accommodate hundreds of guests and their unique needs. 

Take Bruce as their officiant, for example. Bruce will no doubt be a radiant presence, but in the statistically rare chance that he hulks out, the park is an ideal field for battle and containment, says Tony. 

Tony has it all planned out. 

Steve and Bucky share sideways glances of doom and and give Tony identical thumbs-up. They’ve signed on to do this, but agree that the less they have to do the better. They hunker down and try to hide out during the media firestorm that builds as the wedding nears. 

The first photographers with tents appear in front of Stark Tower and the entrance to the park a week before the ceremony.

“Wow,” says Bucky, fifty floors up behind glass, watching the tiny reporter figures below setting up camp and a storm starting to blow in across the sky. “Do you think they’ll be okay down there?”

The next day, shots of Steve and Bucky handing out umbrellas, plastic ponchos and candy bars to the rain-soaked media is the top trending story. 

One intrepid photographer with a long lens catches them back inside the lobby, kissing behind a pillar, thinking themselves concealed; their arms are around each other, their clothes are dripping wet and they’re completely lost to the world. 

SUPER-LOVE OUTLASTS THE STORM, coos the sympathetic Daily News, while The Post runs with RAINY DAY GAY? CAP AND MYSTERY FIANCE MAKE RARE APPEARANCE AMID CONTROVERSY

“Mystery fiance?” Clint repeats. “What does that even mean? Makes it sound like Bucky jumped out of a box with an question mark on it and was like, ‘Surprise, assholes. Guess who.’” He narrows his eyes at Bucky. “You didn’t, right?”

Natasha elbows Clint. “Quiet, I’m reading. ‘Little enough has been disclosed to the public about the mysterious background of James Buchanan Barnes, set to marry Steven “Captain America” Rogers this Saturday in a lavish 4th of July ceremony in Brooklyn’s famed Prospect Park.’” 

She twists her mouth to the side. “At least I’m _trying_ to read this dreck. Here, it gets better: ‘The muscle-bound, dark-haired stunner, engaged to his childhood best friend Captain America for just two months, has become an unexpected favorite on the internet. A staple of gossip columnists and bloggers on sites like Tumblr and Pinterest, at presstime there were thousands of social media accounts devoted to Barnes, with no sign of his popularity dropping off.’”

“Every time I try to tell them to stop on Twitter, it gets worse,” Bucky protests. “Even when I make the signs like they ask.”

Natasha looks at him and is trying too hard not to laugh to read, so Thor seizes the newspaper.

“I will continue,” he announces. “This scroll is much like an Asgardian bard on too much mead.” Natasha grabs for it, but Thor resumes in booming tones: “‘Barnes, it must be recalled, was Captain America’s partner during World War II, and was once thought lost and left for dead by his comrades. Little did they know--’”

“That’s enough, Thor,” says Natasha, with finality. 

“No,” says Bucky. “I wanna hear it. Doesn’t much matter what The New York Post thinks of me, but I can’t change that idea until I know.”

Steve is so in love that it’s hard for him to remember to be restrained. He puts an arm around Bucky’s shoulder when all he wants to do is hold certain reporters upside down by their ankles. Bucky’s response is the mature one, and Steve, as proud as he is in love, keeps his mouth shut. Bucky’s arm circles his waist and holds there, warm despite the cool metal. 

Thor raises his eyebrows at Natasha, clears his throat importantly, and starts again: “‘Little did they know how wrong they were. Barnes was recovered by the Russians and became a different kind of comrade, after which he--’”

“Oh my Thor, does it really say that?” says Clint.

“'--after which he went on to wreak unspeakable horrors as the Cold War-era killing machine the Winter Soldier. With most files on the fearsome assassin classified or destroyed, we may never know how many men, women and children the Winter Soldier murdered in cold blood, while brainwashed.’”

“At least they got to the brainwashing part,” mutters Bucky. “Real fair and balanced.”

“‘Will a certificate of rehabilitation and a pardon from the President be enough to win over the Winter Soldier’s detractors? The shock announcement of Barnes’ engagement to America’s favorite son--’”

Steve snorts into Bucky’s neck, holding on tight.

“I trust there will be no further interruptions,” rumbles Thor, flourishing newsprint, “‘--has divided the nation and international watchers. While many citizens prepare for the party of the century and rush to celebrate the match with a run on commemorative memorabilia, opponents of same-sex marriage have proposed boycotts of all companies involved with the preparations, and security is said to be at maximum levels after alleged terrorist threats.’”

Bucky has gone still. “We just wanted to make it official.” He appeals to the rest of the room: “Thought we should.”

“Hey,” Steve says. “I promise it’ll be okay.”

“Ditto,” says Natasha.

“And I, as well,” says Thor, crumpling the paper.

“Duh,” says Clint.

Bucky gets his color back, comes back to life under Steve’s arm. They hold on.

Tony sweeps in through the open lounge door, hears the last of it, and quickly takes control. The wedding planning has transformed him, as though he’s waited all his life for this one true calling. He has a fancy earpiece in his ear and is in constant contact with caterers, designers, tailors, clothiers, florists, bakers, musicians and half the people on the Eastern seaboard, by last count of their guest list. 

“Do I hear doubt about my security preparations?” asks Tony. “Let me tell you about them.”

And he speaks at length, until Bruce comes down from his floor and takes Steve and Bucky aside, provides an escape. Only Bruce is allowed to pull such a maneuver on Tony, and Tony gets a kiss on the cheek for his troubles. 

Instead of going back up to Bruce’s level, to the labyrinth of labs where Bucky spent too many months, they take the elevator up almost to the top of the Tower. Bruce has all the codes and knows all the best passageways to take, and they follow him out to a side platform overlooking the city. 

This must be a launch-pad for a backup suit or some other toy of Tony’s; Steve has never been up here before. The wind whips their hair and they stare out, a clear view across the East river to the houses and high-rises on the other side, linked by bridges. They’re facing Brooklyn.

Bruce gives them a minute. Then he says, collar turned up by the wind, “So, we’re keeping these vows simple, right, kids? Short and sweet, those were the notes I got.” 

“Right,” says Steve.

“Yup,” says Bucky.

They’ve talked about it. They’re both unsure what to say, now that they’re under such a microscope. They’re used to keeping these things between them, but the importance of everything they declare has ballooned, is instantly amplified. It’s not that they’re afraid to pronounce the truth, but the fear of the crowd’s reaction is a real barrier. The crowd isn’t just their friends gathered to watch. They’ll be televised to millions; the TV specials have already started. The pressure is enormous and looming closer. Now they mostly avoid talking about it.

Bruce eyes them with a touch of suspicion, but he nods. “I know neither of you asked for this, and that maybe without Tony it wouldn’t be such a circus. Okay, I know that without Tony it wouldn’t be such a circus. There’s still time to get out, you know.”

Steve looks at Bucky, unafraid, and Bucky is looking back at him, outraged at the prospect.

“So that’s a no,” says Bruce. “Good. Natural reaction, no coercion on either part.”

“You’re goddamned right,” says Bucky. The wind is picking up and he winds his arm around Steve. “You know how long I’ve been waiting to make an honest man outta this jerk?”

Steve is glowing. “Our romance is for the ages. Its poetry is immortal.”

“Steve likes to pretend like he’s the smart one,” Bucky tells Bruce, conspiratorial, “but I got higher marks in school, and used to let him copy my math homework. Pass it on: Captain America can’t do algebra.”

“I think I’ll lead with that at the ceremony,” says Bruce. He stays serious-faced half a second before smiling and adjusting his glasses. “I think you two’ll do just fine.” He presses Bucky’s shoulder on the way to a flat-screen interface by the wall. “I have to check in with Tony or he’ll send out a search party. New security protocol.”

Bucky smiles after Bruce -- he adores him, after all Bruce did during his rehabilitation, but to see Bruce following Tony’s plans without protest puts up his hackles, and then he frowns. Steve does, too.

Bucky beats him to it: “Stark thinks there’s a credible threat?”

“There’s been dozens of threats, you know that, James,” says Bruce, with a swipe of his finger across glass. “If Tony’s being cautious for once, let him. He only wants to see you two get hitched...Well, you know. Without a hitch.”

“Yeah, we get it,” says Steve. “Thank you, Bruce. For everything.”

Bruce calls in to Tony, and Steve and Bucky stay out on the platform, watching Brooklyn’s lights turn off and on.

“She’s beautiful, ain’t she,” says Bucky. 

“I was thinking the same thing,” says Steve.

Bruce leaves them there, turns out, with a bucket of ice and champagne that won’t work on them but tastes delicious, like the best that Tony’s money can buy. There’s also a selection of weed in varied strains, green and sparkling with crystals, the best that Bruce’s greenhouses can grow. These work on their super-serum bodies somewhat more than alcohol, and they indulge for a while out in the open air, high (often literally) above the reporters and their friends and the gathering tour buses. 

“We should honeymoon on the moon,” Bucky decides, with Steve wrapped in his arms. “I’m sure we know someone who could make that happen.” 

They make a list of their acquaintances and people who owe them a favor who could, in fact, make that happen. 

“Our lives are strange, Buck,” says Steve, looking at Brooklyn. “But I’m happy. Seventy years ago, I never would have thought we’d be able to do this, not in a million years.”

“I was thinkin’ the same thing,” says Bucky. “I’m glad we were wrong.” 

He passes Steve a joint filled with Bruce’s famous knock-out strain, so Steve inhales and stares the way the smoke curls and crawls across the city, arms around the man he’s going to marry.

Maybe it’s the weed, but in bed that night Bucky’s softer, like the last of the tension’s gone out of his muscles, and Steve notices because it’s so easy to sink inside him. Bucky hardly needs preparation, he opens right up, and Steve slides into him, kissing his mouth, holding onto Bucky’s hands, one warm and one cold, both gripping tight. 

It’s gentle and easy and lazy as they rock together. It’s warm and deep, each stroke like coming home until Steve comes. He pulls out to do so, following an urge to mark Bucky as his own in ways that others can’t see. Bucky pushes up his hips to make his body a better canvas. 

Bucky waits for it, encourages it, and Steve’s hand works his cock and he paints Bucky’s belly. Bucky dips his hand in the slick and jerks his own cock, quickly following Steve to climax. 

He draws Steve down so that Steve feels it shudder through him, so that Bucky’s cock is trapped between them when he goes off. Steve kisses him again, and again, because it’s a rare night when Bucky lets him.

In the morning they wake up to Natasha in the kitchen, preparing an assortment of Russian breakfast dumplings. 

“If I ever see such doubt in the face of my cooking again, Barnes, I’ll snap your neck,” she says. 

Bucky escapes with a spoonful of cheese and potato mixture and sprawls on one of the lounge’s many couches. Steve is nicer to Natasha and receives a waiting bowl of cooked dumplings for his trouble, then joins Bucky, sitting pressed at the shoulder and knee. 

“Don’t let him have any, Cap,” says Natasha. “His face insulted my cooking.”

“I never,” says Bucky, batting his eyelashes and digging into Steve’s bowl. “Anyhow, I’m entitled to half of what Steve’s got now.”

“Not yet,” says Steve. “Thinking I might just change my mind.” 

Bruce solves the breakfast stand-off by coming in with bagels and lox and cream cheese and Tony, who carries trays of Starbucks coffees in varied sugary flavors. Tony enjoys visiting franchises on off-hours and quizzing the stunned workers about their admiration for Iron Man. Then he buys the menu a few times over and gives them a few thousand dollars in tips and sweeps back from whence he came, “in a better car than that creeper Batman.”

Bucky gets up to toast a bagel, and Steve follows him, can’t stay away. Today’s the day when more and more guests will start arriving, and he and Bucky will be pulled in a hundred different directions. Steve won’t spare a minute of proximity.

“That’s a lot of bagels,” Steve says, snagging one topped with dried onion and slicing it with Brooklyn-born expertise. 

“Well, we’re expecting company,” answers Bruce. Bruce’s timing is impeccable, and the elevator chimes open to admit the first guests.

Thor and Jane float into the room arm-in-arm. Jane, in an airy yellow sundress, her long dark hair unbound, looks radiant, and Thor is beaming at her side hard enough to make the floating a real possibility.

Steve and Bucky turn as one to meet them. Steve wants to reach for the small of Bucky’s back, let Bucky know he’s here, but Bucky has already stepped forward.

Jane slips her arm from Thor’s and crosses the room without hesitation, and Bucky meets her halfway. 

Steve lets him go. He follows at an appropriate distance.

There was a time when the sight of Jane Foster’s face could send Bucky into fits of screaming. If Steve closes his eyes, he’ll hear the sound of it, so he keeps his eyes open and focused. He’s ready for anything, but Bucky and Jane are smiling at each other.

It was Jane’s experimental hypnotherapy, developed in conjunction with Bruce and Tony, that lead to Bucky’s breakthrough, laid the groundwork for his eventual rehabilitation. 

A simple enough summation for the press. In reality, treatment had stretched over more than a year of frustrating, frightening, and gruellingly exhaustive sessions that Steve would do just about anything to forget. 

Through the use of deep hypnosis and her own lab-developed devices, Jane was able to guide Bucky back through his timeline, to retrace all the steps he’d forgotten taking. The problem was that what he found there was monstrous. Steve remembers the days when the news of Jane’s arrival incited cursing or tears or worse. There were days when Jane’s appearance was a major security hazard.

In the end, when the memories finally got past the crevices of war and on to Brooklyn, when Bucky started to remember the things that mattered most, Jane moved into the Tower to see it through. Jane kept coming back, bless her -- and Thor, for bringing her so often. Steve could kiss them both, but he waits his turn. 

Bucky reaches for the hand Jane offers, folds it between both of his hands. The metal palm curves gently around her delicate fingers. “Dr. Foster. I’m so happy that you could make it.”

“You and me both, James.” She smiles brightly and lets him be the one to let go. 

Steve steps forward and gathers her up in a grateful hug. “Jane. This means a lot.”

Jane opens her mouth to respond, but a shape flings itself from hiding behind Thor and barrels straight at Bucky.

“What am I, chopped liver? Where’s my hug?”

“You call that an entrance? I expected more.” Bucky’s caught the shape, which has resolved itself into Darcy Lewis, and is in the process of spinning her in a full-circle embrace. 

“Help a girl out. We don’t all have super-powers or intellect, you know. I’m like the proletariat superhero. Raise me up.” And Bucky obliges, slinging her easily over his shoulder. 

Darcy dangles over Bucky’s back. “God, I missed the view here. And all the rest of you! Hey! You guys!” Not waiting for a response, she addresses Bucky again. “My dress. Be honest. I don’t think you were Snapchatting honestly.” 

“No, you looked fantastic. Totally hot.”

Darcy squeals and paws at his hair. “Let’s go for a try on. I know you’re dying to see. You’re right, I’m totally hot.”

Darcy had assisted Jane, and her frank, no-nonsense approach appealed to Bucky from the first. She’d helped nurse him through the therapy, and when Bucky was better they became confidants, exchanging messages via what seems to Steve to be a ever-evolving range of social networks.

Bucky spins on his heel and marches for the elevator, all attempts at breakfast abandoned. Darcy grabs for her bag on the floor as they go past, addressing the crowd: “See you in a bit, we’ve got some serious bridesmaid duties to take care of. Bromaid? Nah, I’m a lady. Dudesmaid? I like that. We’re going with dudesmaid. Stark, put it in the program.”

“Noted,” says Tony.

“Natasha,” calls Darcy from Bucky’s shoulder. “Hey, Natty. Nat. We’ve got important dudesmaid business.”

Natasha has left the dumplings to stew and taken up a sesame bagel with a round red slice of tomato. She stands next to Steve watching the scene play out. Her eyebrow lifts. “I am _not_ going for a try-on,” she says emphatically, followed by a bite.

“You’re still no fun,” Darcy declares. “You’re scary and no fun. I’m taking maid of honor from you on account of those things.”

“I can kill a man in in six seconds with my bare hands,” Natasha tells her. “A woman in four.”

“See?” Darcy says. “Scary and no fun.”

“She’s just worried that you look better in the dress,” says Bucky soothingly, carrying Darcy into the elevator. 

He turns around with his burden and salutes Steve, then the rest of the room, who stare after. Darcy waves. A perfectly-launched piece of bagel sails through the air, aimed for Bucky’s head, but the door closes before they can see the impact. Natasha whistles. 

“I’m fun,” she protests. “Wasn’t that fun?”

She seems surprised when Steve’s response is to drape his arm around her shoulders, but she doesn’t slip away or stab him. 

“You know,” says Steve, “I wanted you on my team. We fought over you.”

Now Natasha looks mollified. “Is that so.”

“Cross my heart,” says Steve, in the earnest tone that goads her most. In his regular voice he says, “Bucky won, on account of having even less friends in this century than I do, which is saying something. Also, he begged. Choosing your dress was really important to him.”

“He thinks he chose it,” from Tony, who shouldn’t be listening in but always is. 

Steve presses a kiss to Natasha’s brow before he lets her go. If he’s sentimental, he’s allowed. It’s the week of his wedding. He’s marrying the love of two lifetimes after twenty lifetimes’ worth of pain and sorrow and triumph over adversity. Steve’s allowed.

Natasha was invaluable in the slow, torturous months where they all worked to bring Bucky back. There were weeks where he couldn’t speak English, and days when he refused to. Natasha earned his trust, then his friendship, in Russian; she translated through painfully revealing hours. Depending on Bucky’s state, Steve would be seated somewhere in the room, listening, not understanding their words but desperate to hear the evidence of Bucky remembering.

“While I’ve got your attention, Cap, I need you in the garage,” says Tony, hovering, snapping Steve out of it. “We’ve got to review transportation for our high-profile guests. It’s unlikely, but you may not like the cars I’ve selected. It’s extremely unlikely, but while I’ve got you--” 

“Come on,” says Clint, who has his feet up on the coffeetable. “This is the easiest wedding to get to ever. You get on the F or Q train to Brooklyn, and get off at--”

“Tell that to the Queen of England,” says Tony, “and William and Kate and baby Prince George. Do you expect the heirs presumptive of the British monarchy to take the subway?”

“Well, la di frickin’--”

“Sure,” says Steve. He shouldn’t miss Bucky if he’s gone for an hour or two; they should be able to stay apart like that. Bucky should be able to hang out with his friend for a while, and Steve also, Steve knows, so he nods at Tony. “Let’s go.” 

Steve follows Tony to a special side elevator. Only Tony Stark has built-in express elevators that take him to certain floors without pause, and this one zips straight down to the garage. A floor of it, at least. Tony’s garage contains multitudes.

When they get out the first thing Steve sees is the motorcycle. She’s all in chrome, a 1938 Brough Superior, he’d know her in his dreams. She’s pristine, every inch polished and hand-sewn seam in place, with a saddle made of supple dark leather and plump black tires.

“You like her?” Tony stands next to him.

“Oh, Tony.” Steve’s in love. Bucky is a distant memory, forgotten upstairs.

“Thought so,” says Tony, sounding more than pleased. “This was the dream girl of your era, wasn’t she? Found her in storage and had the mechanics get to work. She’s from my father’s collection, though I doubt he ever rode her. He just liked to surround himself with the prettiest ladies.” Tony has a little silver key on a leather fob, and he slips it into Steve’s jacket pocket. “We’ll argue about this another day, ‘kay?”

“Tony--” Steve peels his eyes from the bike. Thinks hard about all that the offering represents. He reaches inside his pocket and curls his fist around the key. ”I love her.”

Tony nods with great wisdom and understanding of the bond between a man and his motor vehicle. 

Steve reaches out and claps a hand to his shoulder. “How am I supposed to thank you for any of this?”

Tony pats the hand. “You can get the hell out of my Tower with your war bride when this is over and move into the tastefully appointed tenement-cum-condo in Brooklyn that I had to fight a bidding war to secure because someone said he had to live in the building he first boned in.” The fires from the real estate battles are still lit in Tony’s eyes. He relished them, so Steve is unconcerned. He’s surprised to hear their exit brought up so abruptly, until he thinks about it.

“Deal,” says Steve. He fights off a strange shame that Tony had to ask at all. Steve should’ve made their arrangements himself. It’s not unreasonable that after more than a year of harboring and rehabilitating the Winter Soldier, plus innumerable dangerous allies, and now the wedding, Tony is ready for a breather. 

“Good man. Terrible businessman. You should have renegotiated. Have I taught you nothing?” Tony sighs and stares out across the shiny sea of his cars. “Come on. I’ll show you what I meant upstairs.”

He heads straight down an aisle of vehicles worth millions of dollars, then takes a right at another aisle. Steve trails Tony. They pass racing cars, sports cars, luxury cars, cars worth the GDP of small nations and, incongruously, family minivans and casual sedans. Tony has a car for every occasion, and he shows Steve some of the elegant fleet that will be bearing guests to the ceremony.

“So,” says Tony. “What do you and the Buckster want to ride in?”

Steve laughs, shrugs. “Assumed it’d be a limo same as anyone.” 

Tony scoffs. “So traditional. You don’t mean something like that?” He points to the farthest corner, where a ridiculous shiny white SUV limousine is parked. It’s a hulking monstrosity, the kind of car wealthy suburban kids take to prom, so big it looks to have a hot tub lodged in its back-seat.

“Oh my god,” says Steve, approaching cautiously. There’s a feeling in his gut that says to do so, because Tony is grinning too much, and looking between Steve and the car without subtlely. “Tony, what did you do?”

“Absolutely nothing. It’s only an option.”

Steve does a circle around the gargantuan limousine, shaking his head. Tony still won’t budge. Steve throws open the nearest door, sticks his head inside the car, ready for whatever Tony’s got prepared. 

Inside it’s dark, and then the door light flickers on and it’s a huge empty leather couch-bound space. There are oak bars and there is, indeed, a covered hot tub. Steve leans back in confusion and shuts the door.

“You missed a spot,” says Sam.

Steve spins. 

The driver’s side door to a cherry-red Corvette beside them is open. Steve sees it over Sam Wilson’s shoulder when he lifts him a foot into the air. 

“You said -- you couldn’t -- you shouldn’t -- Sam! -- You weren’t supposed to be here until Friday, your mission --”  
.  
“Finished up early,” manages Sam around Steve’s crushing embrace. “Figured I’d surprise you. Tony helped me out. Surprise! Ow, man, my ribs.”

“Sorry.” But Steve doesn’t stop hugging Sam for a good twenty seconds, just kind of holds on and sways them in place. 

Sam looks great -- no visible marks -- in a soft grey t-shirt, jeans and nice shoes that don’t give Steve any clues whatsoever. Dressed like this, Sam could bound for a night club or an opera. His face is split by a happy smile, and his mischievously raised eyebrows won’t tell Steve anything, either. 

Because Steve Rogers isn’t exactly slow on the uptake. Steve has always had a sixth sense for when an operation is at hand, can see the shape of it on the horizon. 

He lets Sam go at last and raises his eyebrows. “Who’s gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“Negatory, Cap,” says Tony. “One revelation at a time. If you suspect that this fine chariot --” the sweep of his arm encompasses the limo -- “will bear you to your bachelor celebrations this evening, you get a gold star. But that’s all you’re going to get.”

“Tony, I told you I didn’t want--”

“Yeah,” says Sam, “because that’s worked in the history of ever.” He holds onto Steve’s arm and starts to move them forward, back through the alley of automobiles. “Can’t stop the wheels on this one, Cap, it’s already in motion. Here’s what’s gonna happen, so you can settle down. We’re going to dinner tonight, just you and me, no strippers, and later that abomination of a transport vehicle will come get us. Probably with strippers.”

Tony’s smile is small and sharp and reveals nothing. He follows them to Steve’s new-old bike. Steve takes a moment and palms an appreciative hand across the leather saddle. Then he looks between his dearest friends, takes a deep breath.

“Straight talk,” says Steve, and neither men, to their credit, even crack a grin. Steve’s face is too serious to permit it. “What’s our threat status?”

Tony shakes his head. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“It’s being taken care of,” says Sam. 

Steve grits his teeth because there’s nothing punchable in proximity. “You don’t --” He stops, starts again, stops, unable to articulate the confused boil of emotions. “I trust you guys to be prepared. But this is my wedding. And you can’t -- you can’t expect me to sit back while there are ops happening because of it. I’ve seen some of the tacticals Tony drew up--”

“Et tu, JARVIS?”

“Sir, I believe that Captain Rogers has the necessary security clearance to view the schematics of his approaching nuptials.”

Steve nods. “Thank you, JARVIS. At least someone around here treats me like an adult. I’d remind you that I’m--”

“We remember, old man.” Sam’s hand returns, squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “And we get it. But the team made a call. We decided that you and Bucky earned some vacation time. There’s nothing to worry about. We’ve got it on lockdown.”

“But--”

“No buts,” says Tony, and now he does crack a grin, quickly disseminated. Tony’s wearing his Serious Business face, the one that makes billions and crushes the opposition. “We voted and it was majority rule; as the embodiment of democracy you’ll have to respect that. You and the Molotov Cocktail are off-duty until further notice.”

Steve wants to argue but their faces are too set, too steady. They stare back at him, unwilling to give ground. Steve wonders how many strategy meetings there’ve been, then looks at Sam and Tony and tries, for them, not to think too hard about it. He hates the feeling of being left out of the briefings, especially considering they’re about his own damned wedding, but for Bucky’s sake he’ll consider their viewpoint. 

Bucky is on-edge enough, convinced that something will go disastrously wrong, and even more convinced that he will be the cause. Steve has spent many nights reassuring him and is looking at more; if Bucky knew their friends were keeping them cocooned he might react badly. Would want to mount a hunt of his own, same as Steve.

There’s a reason why they’re meant for each other. Can’t ever, ever sit still.

Steve fidgets. “At least show me the latest reports.”

“No dice,” says Sam. He points at Tony. “You mentioned breakfast an hour ago. I’ve been starving down here, man. I ate a chia energy bar and lost my party hat. What took you so long?”

“Dr. Foster,” says Tony, and Sam’s eyes go a little wide and he glances sideways at Steve. Steve shakes his head, and Tony says, “Yeah, it went fine, no screaming or breaking of anything. Things are cool.”

Sam is still watching Steve, his expression open and analyzing. “We’ve come a long way,” he says, and he slings his arm around Steve and propels them to the elevator. “Feels good to be back. Did Nat make dumplings? I specifically requested dumplings.”

When the elevator lets them back to the Avengers recreation floor, Sam’s appearance is greeted with widespread commotion. He’s circled around the room for exuberant hugs, and half the time Steve goes with him, beaming. 

Having Sam at his side gives him a measure of safety and surety that’s been lacking. Steve cares about all of his friends and teammates, but Sam Wilson he knows better than anyone alive save Bucky. Sam helped him find Bucky, helped bring all of this about. Sam was with him in the best and worst times. It’s so good that he’s here now.

Steve didn’t expect to see Sam until the morning of his wedding, and to have him here early is the best sort of present. He suspects it was a team effort that brought Sam in, and Steve can only be grateful.

Sam, favorite of everyone, holds court with everyone, long enough that Steve can be excused a check on his phone when it starts to buzz. During the long year of Bucky’s containment, Sam acted as messenger, locating relevant parties, carrying mysterious machines under the cover of darkness, flying people through the air straight to the Tower to help Bucky, like a figure out of myth or fairy-tale. 

Sam is holding court, so Steve sneaks his phone out of his pocket. It still seems terribly rude to him to look at the small screen while engaged in conversation, but he’s learning how. 

Bucky: _hey_

_i love you_

_you’re missing out_

Steve texts back:

_hi_

_i love you_

_sam is here! he & tony surprised me_

_oh wow i should come down_

_it’s okay there’s no hurry._ Steve sends that, then a blushing smiley-face emoji (Clint taught him those). _meet me somewhere first?_

_anywhere_

_thought you’d never ask_

_i’m dying here steven_

Steve is smiling and also clutching the phone too tight, threatening to crush it. He types quickly: 

_treehouse in fifteen_

Then he returns to being happy at Sam’s side, the brilliance and warmth of his friends washing over him. Steve has never felt quite so content. It’s a strange sensation. If he stops to evaluate that all of this is for him and Bucky, he’ll stall out --

so he doesn’t. He thinks about plotting a brief but necessary escape.

They take it easy on him:

“Aw, we should let him go,” says Sam, cozy between Natasha and Clint on the love-seat. “I know that look and it’s the Steve Rogers is a terrible liar look.”

“Our regards,” says Clint, waving a hand.

“With love,” from Natasha, poker-faced. 

Clint cracks up. Tony and Bruce, ensconced in a corner, are unreachable, engaged in a conversation that requires three degrees to parse, and in another corner Thor is calling down small puffy clouds for Jane’s benefit. Sam gives him a thumbs-up, and adds a rude addendum in their shared sign-language.

“You are all impossible people,” declares Steve, red to his ears, and they shoo him out.

The Treehouse is a space that he and Bucky built in a burst of boredom in a time Steve would otherwise forget. Within the Tower greenery abounds. There are manicured gardens, a whole floor devoted to farming at Darcy’s insistence on sustainability, Bruce’s grow-rooms. Chickens on the roof.

In an enormous greenhouse room they built a wooden fort. As children in the dusty streets of Brooklyn such a playground was a distant dream. Even the scions of Manhattan didn’t have green backyards, didn’t have space for treehouses.

It’s half the height of a sniper tower. Planks of redwood sanded down and steel nails. The construction is simple: a squat square house borne above the ground on towering wooden legs. It has narrow windows cut for light, slim as the arrow-slits of ancient castles. From the doorway extends a handwoven rope-ladder that is the only way up. 

The ladder is unfurled when Steve approaches, and there is light in the windows. Steve reaches for the ladder, gets his foot into the first rung, and Bucky comes out of the Treehouse door and crouches down. 

The ladder is hauled up with a whir of metal; Steve goes vertical, and Bucky reels him in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you so much,” Steve says. He wants to say, I love you so much it is the core of me, I love you enough to set the world ablaze over it. To fall from a burning sky. “Always have and and always will.” 
> 
> Bucky gives a sly smile. “Maybe we should elope.”

Bucky pulls Steve into his arms and kisses him hard, doesn’t stop until they run out of breath. For them that’s a while.

Bucky pulls back, but only a little. “Shit, this is harder than I thought.”

“Is it?” Steve will always try for levity.

Bucky nips his lower lip in punishment. “Don’t be a dick.”

“If you’re sure--”

Grumbling, Bucky guides them into the Treehouse. It’s a room with roughly the same square space as their first studio apartment in 1939, before they upgraded to a flat that could fit a spindly couch. It’s small and cramped and theirs.

In the vastness of the Tower, they don’t need much space, and find the close wood walls comforting. Every inch here has been sanded by their hands; they made the furniture -- the tiny table, the chairs, the low boxed bedstead -- together. There’s room for nothing else when they duck inside.

“Sorry about the snark,” says Steve, as they secure the door. “I’ve been feeling the same way. It’s great to see everyone, but I want to be with you.” He catches Bucky’s hands, warm and cool, holds tight. “They’re planning us parties, you know--”

“Yeah. So I hear. My protests were ignored.” Bucky shrugs -- what can ya do. He turns Steve’s hand over in his right hand and brings it to his mouth, kisses his knuckles and the inside of his wrist. “Figure in a few days this’ll be over, and I get you all to myself. Honeymoon on the moon. Keeps me goin’.”

Steve kisses him some more. Then he tries to be stalwart about the situation. “Compared to other ops we’ve pulled off--”

Bucky’s raised eyebrows are the chestnut shade of his hair; beneath them his eyes are bold and blue. “Easy, right?” He tilts his head. “Should we tell them we’re in on their little plot to keep us safe and sound, or did you want to talk to me about that first?”

“Buck--”

“Aw, Steve, I don’t care. I don’t. That’s just it. I know what you’re afraid of. You think if I get a good look at the threats I’m gonna go off on ‘em. And I can’t say that wouldn’t be satisfyin’ on a level. Take out anyone gunnin’ for us -- that’s what I would’ve done. Before.” Bucky’s eyes are far away for only an instant. Then he’s back, and his arms are around Steve. “We went through too much bullshit to have me fuck it up with a bad mission. Maybe that’s what goes wrong -- I go off half-cocked.” His Adam’s apple bobs under a swallow. “So -- so I won’t. Not if I can prevent it. Your team is good. They’ve got gods and monsters; figure if they say we’re safe, we should listen. You and me -- I don’t think we’d handle this one too well.”

Neither Steve nor Bucky is known for restraint in battle. Emotionally charged and fraught as they are, taking on the bad guys who are specifically targeting their joyous union is definitely a bad idea. A really terrible idea. 

They are aware of how awful it is because both are chomping at the bit -- wanting to flow into a seamless stretch of operations, aided by righteousness and attended by winged victory, or at least Sam. They want to take every last one of them down. They know how dangerous they are, and how easy it would be to cause a conflagration. They specialize in those.

That Bucky is the one to call them out thrills and needles at Steve. It’s the logic of Bucky Barnes, down to his bones, Bucky who spent his whole lifetime before the fall reeling Steve in. 

Bucky was high-spirited and up for anything, but it was Steve who’d gone looking for fights and world wars. Now Bucky’s playing his part once more, in perfect form, and Steve doesn’t know what to say. It’s his fault for anticipating the Winter Soldier’s reaction instead of Bucky’s.

“You know,” Steve manages at last, leaning into Bucky’s hold, “you might be right about that.”

Bucky nods, pleased to have it over with, and his mouth quirks sideways. “Anyway,” he says, “didn’t meet you here to lecture you.”

“Oh?” says Steve, arch. “Then why?”

“Figure I better show you.” Bucky sets his hands to Steve’s shoulders and shoves him back, so that Steve hits the redwood wall. Then Bucky starts at Steve’s mouth, his neck, his collarbone, his nipples, trails kisses down, down across Steve’s stomach with his shirt rucked up. Bucky mouths the tapered cut of Steve’s hips, spends a long while there. He undoes Steve’s belt and works at his pants and boxers. Then he licks up, up, up along the length of Steve’s cock, so hard for him already.

Never in his life will Steve ever get enough of this. There cannot be enough time spent with Bucky, never enough, and the touch of Bucky’s hands and mouth on him drives Steve as crazy as it did in the thirties, the forties -- there’ll never be enough decades. 

He threads his fingers through Bucky’s wild hair and urges him on with a moan. It’s too good, it still feels like something secret, like magic. No one knows him like Bucky does and no one else has had his body like Bucky. There’s never been anyone but Bucky.

Steve keeps his hands in Bucky’s hair as Bucky takes him in as though he’s air, like Steve’s sustenance. Bucky’s eyelashes flutter, dark on his pale cheek, his lips a round red ‘o’ of furious suction, and his tongue is wicked.

The wall is solid enough; they built it. Steve shudders against wood, cants his hips, and Bucky takes him deeper, swallows Steve to the root, demonstrating profound expertise and wily technique. Steve smooths his hand through Bucky’s hair, reassures as he thrusts.

“God, Buck, I missed you--”

It was because of this, because they remained like this through so many trials, because they came back to this, again and again and again, that they decided to make it official. Why not? They earned it. Every day people got married who knew each other a week, a year. Why not Bucky and Steve? They found each other across the span of centuries, held fast above all else: why shouldn’t they?

It was supposed to be small, Steve considers, as Bucky’s throat closes around him, an intimate ceremony with a few close friends. They’d sign papers and exchange words at City Hall, and emerge legally sworn in name as they were in everything else. Bucky’s been listed as Steve’s next-of-kin on every form that mattered since they were teenagers, and getting married would put the seal on that.

Enter Tony Stark and his vision for the wedding of the pre and post-century.

Steve holds Bucky’s head just like he likes and fucks Bucky’s mouth like Bucky likes, and he thinks about what they have before them. Parties unknown. Soon, a ceremony that will be shown to every household around the world. Steve and Bucky, up there for everyone to see, wearing Tony’s chosen suits.

It’s a good sign, Steve thinks, that he comes thinking about their wedding. He spills over at Bucky’s insistent urging, the sight of them standing together burned into his eyes. They’re electric. The more that he thinks about marrying Bucky, the harder he comes. The thought of slipping a ring onto his silver finger is unbearable in the best way, and Steve unravels.

Bucky swallows, his gaze aimed up at Steve, he swallows and swallows. Then he pulls back and stays on his knees.

“Could do that all night,” Bucky says, doesn’t wipe at his glistening mouth. “Would rather. Do we really have to go out?”

“It’s only polite,” says Steve, still pressed back against the boards. “They’re here for us, after all.”

Bucky looks up from his knees, hair staticky from Steve’s fingers. “I know it. But you should hear what Darcy’s got planned. We start at a burlesque show, _then_ drinks at the Plaza, dinner at Del Posto, dancing at --” he breaks off, and his expression shades suspicious. “What’ve you got?”

“Dinner with Sam,” Steve admits, but before Bucky’s eyes can narrow, “then Tony Stark and whatever he can fit into a limo the size of a schoolbus.”

Bucky appears a touch more sympathetic. He shows a flash of another emotion that is quickly hidden, but Steve knows what it is. 

“So when do I get you back?” Bucky asks.

Fear: it’s fear in Bucky’s eyes, and Steve knows because he feels it too. For him the fear is in the pit of his stomach, sometimes a stone, sometimes a claw. 

Since Bucky was found, they’ve hardly been apart. Even the days, the months, where Bucky didn’t know him properly, even then Steve was there. Ever since Bucky regained the fullness of his memories, their longest separations are necessitated by missions. Steve tries to keep those at an absolute minimum, won’t step in unless the world needs saving; but as a member of the Avengers that call comes with increasing frequency. 

He likes to think about a time fast approaching when Bucky will be able to join them. Bucky’s skills are formidable, and will be a considerable asset to the team. He’ll fight side-by-side at Steve’s side, just like the old days, and they won’t ever have to keep apart. 

Bucky has expressed the opinion that he’s not ready yet. During rehabilitation, and after, he’s been vetted in innumerable ways, subjected to physical and psychological stress-tests, endured combat situations and ambushes. He’s come through all with flying colors. But in a real-life scenario next to Steve, Bucky thinks he might not be able to control his reaction.

“The Winter Soldier followed orders, but never the rules,” Bucky told Steve. “I’m afraid if it comes down to keeping you safe, I’ll blast a hole through a crowd of civilians to get you there. That’s the low-impact scenario.”

Steve shook his head. “You aren’t him anymore, Buck.”

“He’s still me,” Bucky said, hand to the seam of his altered shoulder. “I can remember the past. I can’t undo it. Those things I did are a part of me, whether I liked them or not; and sometimes I liked them.” He held Steve’s gaze. “Just gimme a little more time, okay, pal?”

Tonight is different than a mission. It’s separation for the space of hours, while being feted for their relationship. They should be able to handle this. Normal people might even find the prospect of a party in their honor enjoyable.

Steve knows his face looks mostly miserable as he bends to pull Bucky to his feet. “They won’t tell me anything. Knowing Tony, we’ll be out all night. And it sounds like you have quite the schedule.”

“I’m going to be covered in glitter,” Bucky declares ominously. “I know it.”

“The Glitter Soldier would be a good PR move,” says Steve, then watches as Bucky’s expression goes from incredulous to amused, and he steps into Steve’s space and crowds him into the wall.

“Oh, you’re hilarious,” says Bucky to the hollow of Steve’s throat. “A regular comedian.”

“Instead of a sniper rifle, the Glitter Soldier brings sparkles and stardust wherever he goes. Think of the merchandising--”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Tony Stark,” says Bucky, which is enough of a sore point that Steve stops smiling. 

Bucky still doesn’t entirely trust Tony, even after the year in hell; he doesn’t understand Tony’s motivation, why he’d risk his own safety and resources to help them out. Bucky is of the opinion that all Starks are ultimately engaged for their own gain, and nothing can quite convince him otherwise. 

For a long while, he was certain Tony was after his arm, that Tony would dissect him without a second glance. On bad days, he would mistake Tony for Howard and scream about ghosts until his throat was raw. Tony called him Macbeth and brought bourbon.

Steve wishes Bucky could see it the way he does. Tony has been impossibly generous and quite restrained, for Tony Stark, for a Stark. He kept Bucky’s rehabilitation under wraps for a year, then employed every art of PR wizardry to make the necessary announcements once Bucky was better. He funded the entire project, asking for nothing but basic access. He brought Bruce and Jane in and gave them what they needed. He took Steve aside on many evenings and made him drink expensive drinks and let Steve swear and punch through walls. 

God knows Tony had every right to throw them out at first sight. Tony’s a smart man, and helping them wasn’t smart. It was loving, and Steve will never be able to thank him enough. Best man is the least he could do. 

“Don’t say his name too loud, he’ll hear you,” Steve teases, deflects. “Say it three times and he appears.” Considering the recent security protocols it’s possible. Before Bucky can grumble, Steve winds his arms around his neck. He slides a hand through Bucky’s hair and gently tugs.

“Darcy thinks I should cut it off,” Bucky says, letting them switch subjects. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s my favorite hair,” answers Steve. He rolls his hips to meet Bucky’s, to feel the insistent length of Bucky’s cock through his jeans. “It’s about what you want, Buck.”

Bucky’s grin is promising. “I got an idea or two.”

“Yeah?” 

“Take off your clothes.” Bucky steps away to do the same. Steve’s pants are already around his ankles, and he kicks free. He tugs his t-shirt over his head and then he can watch Bucky: Bucky’s fingers undo his leather belt, unzip his jeans. His jeans shimmy down over his hips, his magnificent thighs. His cock is huge and hard and Steve licks his lips. Bucky pulls off his shirt.

Steve has come to love the metal arm. It’s the reason why Bucky is here with him in an impossible future. The arm was made to do awful things, but above all else it preserved him. It’s beautiful, just like the rest of Bucky. Steve drops his head, and he kisses the line where flesh becomes chrome. 

Bucky has a foil square in his hand. He shoves Steve back against the wall. The treehouse boards groan with the impact. He tears open the packet and wets his fingers, then palms Steve’s ass. He works two capable fingers into Steve and starts to stretch him.

“Use your other hand,” whispers Steve. He bites into the curve of Bucky’s shoulder, sinks teeth far enough to leave an impression. 

Bucky hesitates but complies, slicks up metal that eases cool and smooth into Steve. Steve spreads his legs to take more of him and dents the wood when he throws his head back.

Bucky watches him, teases him, makes his fingers set off sparks inside Steve. He goes slow, shows that metal can be supple and gentle. He looks into Steve’s eyes while he does it, and there isn’t a hint of shadow in Bucky’s blue gaze. Then the fingers slip free, and the steel arm snakes around and under Steve, scoops him off the floor. Steve is caught off-guard by the move but moves with it, wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist and puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders for leverage. Together they haul Steve up and the arm anchors him mid-air.

“Haven’t done this in a while,” Bucky murmurs.

They haven’t done it like this since Steve was a skinny little thing seventy years ago. When they were reunited during the war they passed many nights and mornings and mid-afternoons, but Bucky couldn’t leverage Captain America then. Their proportions flipped and they forgot to mind. 

Yet Steve can recall in a heartbeat what it was to have Bucky pick him up in the old days and do him against the wallpaper. They did that so as not to risk the bedsprings’ squeak alerting nosy neighbors. Steve knows how to curl around Bucky, exactly how to cling. 

“Still know how?” says Steve.

Bucky’s grin is lopsided. “This is the first thing I remembered when Dr. Foster took me back to Brooklyn.”

Bucky lines up his cock and pushes inside. Steve is held up and bears down in the same breath. Together they work Bucky into him. They watch it happen.

Steve gasps as Bucky’s cock hits just right. They sweat with the exertion of the position, muscles strained, the creak of metal. Save that they are silent awhile. Bucky gets all the way in, and then it’s Steve’s turn to take action, to raise and lower his body, reburying Bucky again and again. He receives Bucky, rides him, hands tangled in Bucky’s hair for purchase. Bucky leans in to kiss his mouth, Bucky’s tongue clever in its imitation of his cock. The Treehouse sways with them.

“You’re so good,” Steve tells Bucky in time with his thrusts. “You’re so, so good.”

“When you were smaller, I was always afraid I’d hurt you like this,” Bucky says, like he’s uncovering the memory for the first time. “But it felt like nothin’ else.” His grin quirks. “And you begged me.”

“Please,” agrees Steve. Bucky’s arm tightens around him and he starts to speed. He rocks on his feet, back and forth, up into Steve. He uses the strength in his left arm, levers Steve on his cock. Back and forth, down and up, until even their big bodies are dizzy with it. Bucky fucks him hard and fast, rattles the boards they nailed down. 

The Treehouse holds. The sound of “Bucky, please” shivers along the wood. Bucky’s warm hand finds his cock and fists it just the way Steve likes. Tugs him along as they fit together, so that Steve cries out and comes for a second time while Bucky holds him up.

He clenches around Bucky as he gives over, tightens all over, and that makes Bucky groan. The sound is resonant and delicious as it echoes from the panels. 

“You’re gorgeous,” says Bucky. “You’re just right.” He used to say that to Steve’s ear even back when Steve was small. “Steve,” says Bucky, and he grips Steve’s hips and thrusts as far as he can, fills Steve with warmth and possession. He holds in Steve and spills over. Steve is wrapped all around him. 

“I love you so much,” Steve says. He wants to say, I love you so much it is the core of me, I love you enough to set the world ablaze over it. To fall from a burning sky. “Always have and and always will.” 

Bucky gives a sly smile. He wipes the sweat from his eyes. “Maybe we should elope.” 

The Treehouse sounds with laughter as they untangle. They dress and try to appear respectable and not quite so debauched. 

“Two more days,” Steve reminds him. “Then we get out of here.” He hesitates. “Tony wants us gone after the wedding.”

“Is that so?” Bucky looks delighted. “Well, that makes two of us, an’ me agreeing with Stark for once.”

Steve tries not to frown. “I didn’t know you were unhappy here.”

“I’m not. I’m not, when I’m with you,” Bucky assures, though he runs a hand through his hair, one of his nervous gestures. “But there are floors here I don’t like to be reminded of, even in passin’. And I’m ready for us to have our own place again. We did pretty well, back when we couldn’t buy a clue. We’ll do okay, Steve.”

With a start, Steve realizes that he’s the one who has resisted their leaving the security of the Tower. Bucky has been better a long while now, and Steve’s barely given leaving a second thought. Bunking down with the team’s his first instinct, and the safest. Has he been keeping them wrapped in wool?

“I can’t wait,” says Steve, reaching for both of Bucky’s hands. “You and me in Brooklyn.”

Bucky seems relaxed by this reaction. He squeezes Steve’s hands, lets go, fishes out his phone with a grimace. “This is our first warning that we’re overstepping the bounds of politeness and getting it on. Love Darcy.”

Steve shakes his head. “You ready for this?” He asks because he knows he isn’t ready. His stomach is a knot.

Bucky purses his lips, considers. “If it means I get to marry you on the other side, I’ll damn well do anything. Even become the Glitter Soldier.”

Steve kisses him, and Bucky kisses back, until they receive a second warning from Darcy, then a third.

Later, Bucky goes out with Darcy, Natasha, Bruce, and -- Steve sees to his delight -- Jane, all of them fitting into a chattering elevator that closes and vanishes. Steve’s heart drops a little with the sight. Bucky’s trips outside the Tower without him are few and far between, and Steve is always waiting for him when he gets back. Tonight there’s no telling.

Sam lays out the plan, which he assures is a low-key and excellent one. They take out the motorcycle from Tony, and she runs as advertised, like a dream. Steve weaves them expertly through midtown traffic while Sam’s arms circle tight around him. It’s comforting and familiar to have Sam at his back, and Steve lets himself relax and enjoy the ride. 

A long time ago, in the hunt for Bucky, there were stretches of road where Sam and Steve travelled just like this. They’re experts, and their bodies remember how to lean in. When they come off the Brooklyn Bridge Steve takes a scenic route. He keeps up a steady narration on Brooklyn until they reach their dinner.

Di Fara Pizza is the same as it has always been. It’s practically unchanged since Steve’s old days, a pocket out of time. The same bent old man makes every pie by hand. Fresh basil grows in the window and a line of waiting customers and tourists clutching guidebooks snakes out the door. Assistants buzz around the big oven in prep, but the pies are still made by one man. Steve and Sam order four slices apiece and tall icy softdrinks. Coca-cola hasn’t changed much, either. Steve finds the sugary taste comforting.

They wait amidst the milling crowd, talking of idle, easy things. When the pizza’s ready, they roam the adjacent streets until they find an a fine-looking stoop. Classic brownstone is best. They dine Brooklyn-style on the stairs, and Steve shows Sam the proper way to eat pizza, which is folded in half.

For a while they eat in companionable silence. Then Sam says, “How’re you doing, man?”

Everything comes out. It’s like Sam undoes a dam. All of Steve’s fears, his apprehensions. His incredulous joy. His terror that it will be tampered with. Words are spilling out of him, overlapping: “So much stuff to do for the wedding and I don’t know how -- Tony wants us to be out of the Tower soon, and Bucky agrees -- Bucky agrees we shouldn’t go after the threats, but I--”

“Whoa, whoa,” says Sam, setting down his second slice of pizza. “I wanna hear it all, but one thing at a time, Cap. Seems to me you’ve been keeping your game-face on for a while, huh?”

Abruptly speechless, Steve nods. He makes himself eat while Sam looks him over. 

After a moment, Sam sighs. “We’ve all expected a lot of you, haven’t we,” he says. “We got it, too. This has been a long, strange trip of a year, man, and you shouldered the burden of it.”

Now Steve shakes his head. It isn’t true. During most of Bucky’s rehabilitation, he’d been mostly useless. He couldn’t build time-splitting devices like Jane, or brew up calming medicines like Bruce. He couldn’t coax Bucky in Russian, like Natasha, or fly what was needed through the air, like Sam. There were days when Darcy and even Tony roused more of a reaction in Bucky than Steve did. There were days when Bucky turned away from him. Steve would sit as close as he was allowed, and sit. And sit. 

“Steve,” says Sam, earnest, “there’s no two ways about it. You made it all happen. There’s no way we would’ve come together without your leadership. You made every call, and you were there every goddamned day and night to see it through.” He raises an elegant eyebrow. “Tony used to joke about trying to take over the word so that you’d have a vacation.”

Steve opens his mouth, but Sam goes on with a smile. “Thing is, you never took one. All of us went back to our lives after your boy passed his tests. We all did. Except--”

“Yeah,” says Steve. “I’ve been hearing about that a lot today.” He levels Sam with a plaintive look. “Is this supposed to be a pep-talk about winging it on our own, Sam? Because I’ll spare you the trouble. I get it. We shouldn’t be living in the Tower anymore. After the wedding, we’re moving out.”

“I think that’s a great step,” says Sam. “What other steps do you think you should take?”

Steve blinks. He never knows what to say when Sam sounds like his counselor instead of his best friend. “I expect you’re going to tell me.”

“Where’s Bucky in all of this?” asks Sam.

Steve’s mouth presses a line. His brow furrows. “Bucky says he’s not ready to join us on missions yet.”

He means that to be the end, a sentence to warn Sam off, but Sam absorbs this unperturbed. “Okay,” says Sam, around a bite of pizza, “so he’ll, what? Hang out in your new digs, waiting to see if he feels like assassinating people again?”

“That’s not fair.” Steve feels his cheeks flush. “He makes his own decisions. He’ll be a valuable addition to the Avengers, but no one wants to push him. Certainly not me.” The flush turns a brighter red when he thinks about Sam’s implications. “You think I’m influencing him.”

“I think you’re not thinking it through,” says Sam. His tone is soft and persuasive. “Listen to yourself, man. ‘A valuable addition’ to an elite disaster squad. Bucky’s spent the year trying to undo the idea that he is, at heart, an unstoppable killing machine. If I were him, I might be looking in the classifieds for another sort of job.”

“But we’ve always been partners,” says Steve. He’s staring. 

“You’re marrying him,” Sam reminds. “That’s a different sort of partnership. When you need a handsome, devil-may-care buddy to cover you on your crazy-ass missions, you’ve got me.”

Steve turns all of this over and over in his head. “Has Bucky -- did he --” 

It’s gut-wrenching to think that Bucky’s been so unhappy in the Tower, waiting for their life to start, uncertain of the path Steve selected for him. When was the last time Steve asked what Bucky wanted outside of bed? Steve is so used to taking point, to guiding them by his own internal compass. Bucky hasn’t been consulted in some time. Steve flinches. 

It’s more than courtesy or care for Bucky’s emotions. Steve hasn’t switched out of the mode where he’s calling all the shots, like Sam said. He’s still turned on, expecting catastrophe, warding against it. He’s running his life like it’s an operation. It’s Steve, not Bucky, who’s still at war. Steve who is the forever soldier.

“He hasn’t said anything, not to me,” says Sam. “I’m just reading between the lines. I think you’ll do well here in Brooklyn, and I think you should ask your man what he wants to do with his life.”

Anyone but Sam and Steve would’ve risen to his feet by now. Steve’s a humble man, but he’s not used to being called out like this -- not for a long time. Steve narrows his eyes, but Sam is saying, “I know, I know. No one asked you, right? ‘Cept they did, and you chose Captain America. Sucks to be you,” and he tucks into his final slice.

Steve thinks about it. How he and Bucky have been joined at the hip, inseparable, in stasis. Days pass in the Tower where they do nothing but train and fuck and remember. It has proved extremely sustaining. But he’s been waiting for Bucky to join the Avengers, and Bucky’s been waiting to get out. 

Steve is full of shame when he realizes he doesn’t know what Bucky wants. He’s been so absorbed by what they have, by recovering what they lost.

He bows his head and eats more pizza.

Serious talk delivered, Sam lightens the mood. He launches into a lively description of his last escapade for Fury, filled with James Bond-esque twists and turns that Steve knows are just the tip of the iceberg. His brain is playing over Bucky like a broken record but he listens to Sam also. Steve’s smiling.

It’s a shock that Bucky might not want to fight beside him. Steve’ll admit as much. But there’s a warmer feeling in his belly at the thought. To think that Bucky might really want to stay out of harm’s way. To think that he’s had enough. And why not? He’s been through battle a thousand times over. Maybe Bucky wants retirement, pure and simple. Who would blame him? 

How could Steve not have asked?

He’s glad to be made aware. Too often you can’t see what’s right in front of you until it’s pointed out. He puts his hand in his pocket and types an _i love you_ to Bucky on the ever-present cell phone. Steve is better at this maneuver than teenagers are. He sends the message.

“I hear you,” Steve tells Sam. “I think there’s a lot of things I haven’t been looking at. Thank you, Sam.” They finish off their slices in silence. By the time they reach for their Cokes, they’re on the stoop shoulder to shoulder.

“Now you’ve got to focus on the positives,” says Sam. “You’re marrying the love of your life, my friend.”

The wellspring that is Bucky surges through Steve. He nods, affirmed. 

Sam goes on: “I’m thinking you feel pretty good about that.”

“Every day,” answers Steve. The phone buzzes back and he knows without looking what it says: _i love you more_

Sam nods. “So how do we go about celebrating it?” He’s grinning. He’s been scanning the traffic for five minutes. 

The limousine casts a bright shadow on the block. It radiates light and music.

“We go in headfirst,” says Steve. They do.

Tony Stark throws a hell of a party.

From the moment Steve and Sam enter the car their destinies cease to be their own. Friendly hands grab and haul them in; friendly hands offer dangerous offerings. Tony reveals that he has spent the better part of the year brewing a liquor that will work on Steve, which appears from many directions. Unassuming, unused to drunkenness, Steve accepts every libation.

He is on the couch of a big limo next to Sam. At their head is Tony, resplendent in white-tie. Thor sits across in his usual garb plus a full goblet. Clint also has a plentiful cup, and wears a baby blue tuxedo ensemble. They’re beaming ear-to-ear, already a few drinks in from the ride. Serene and beautiful in the corner, and smiling right at Steve, is Maria Hill. She slips him his first drink.

Steve roars, delighted, and hugs all the air out of her. “Because you’re here, I’ll allow it,” he says. He accepts that there’s a party and it’s for him and it’s happening. He takes the drink and downs it. Maria kisses both of his cheeks. Clint turns up the music.

There are no strippers in sight. There are only his trusted companions, who all sport matching golden flasks full of Tony’s concoction. Their task for twenty blocks is to ply Steve with sips. Clint plays DJ and maintains a lively playlist. The songs range from ancient opera to the classics of Steve’s early days to modern club, with an emphasis on drum and bass. The windows throb. They have to lift their voices and shout joyfully to be heard.

So many fine people, so many outstanding personalities, there’s a lot of shouting. Everyone’s talking all at once, sharing stories and speculations. Someone sets a flask in Steve’s hand and it stays there. Conversation partners switch up with the songs or else someone seizes the stage of the limousine and commands attention. Thor is the best story-teller of all, holding them rapt for miles. Steve has no idea where they’re going, if they’re going anywhere or simply circling city blocks. He finds it doesn’t matter. 

The cozy interior of the car holds them all within touching distance, and it’s wonderful. Steve gets pats on the back, cuffs to the ear, hands squeezing his biceps. They rib him mercilessly, the narrative flow always circling back around to Steve. It becomes a roast. An hour in, Tony announces that they’re in for a special tour.

Tony looks at Steve. He’s impeccable in a bespoke tux with pronounced tails. “Steven Grant Rogers, this is your life,” intones Tony. All of the windows roll down. 

They’re on a block in Flatbush that was once scrubby and worn-down but now bristles with overpriced condos. There’s not much that Steve can see that looks familiar, save a few of the trees. He’d know his boyhood stomping grounds blindfolded, though. The air here doesn’t change with the buildings. He breathes in.

“When our illustrious Captain was but a wee, wee lad --” and Tony launches into an epic speech. He shares juicy details of a rowdy youth with the crowd, and he winks at Steve throughout. Steve, ever trying to save the world from trouble, was always in it.

The caravan moves along: they visit Steve’s grammar school, still intact and as shabby. They pause before the high school, unchanged down to its mowed fields where Bucky used to play ball. Where Steve used to sit in the stands, drawing and dreaming. Tony spills more gossip at every juncture. 

When they yield to a certain stoplight, Steve smiles all the way up to his eyes. At this corner, an alleyway used to run crooked to the canal; now there is a frozen yogurt store and a bank. But this was the place where he and Bucky first kissed, where they put furtive arms around each other in the dark. Steve swallows when he sees the street names.

Here Tony says nothing, but the car holds through a toast. Steve is smiling because the shape of the tour and its revelations means that Bucky colluded with Tony. Only Bucky is party to such inside information. Even Tony’s best JARVIS-run searches to scour for the details wouldn’t have turned up this. Steve imagines Tony and Bucky bent over a map of Brooklyn, Bucky pointing out the poignant places to take Steve. Their mutual glee.

Steve can’t stop smiling. He has a golden flask in hand and he sips. They’re cruising past the shop-window he first crashed through as Captain America, when his body was a newborn thing and he had little command of it. 

The shop, by virtue of its fame, is still in existence. Steve laughs along with everyone else as Tony mimes his frantic motions. Steve can look at the past now, and laugh and cry and shake his head: he doesn’t long for it anymore. He realizes this with a start. 

His place is here; Bucky is here; he has a circle of friends better than any other on Earth and Asgard. Sam is right. It’s time to look to the future, to stop being so caught up in what’s finished and done. Steve should be used to life beginning all over again. That’s his story.

This is the goodbye tour. Steve doesn’t need these places anymore. He’s as much of a tourist. He and Bucky will make new memories in Brooklyn. They’ll find other shops, visit trendy restaurants together. Stroll hand-in-hand down the streets, as they never dared, as they never get to do much these days in the media crush. 

Outside the window Steve can see the shadows of the young men he and Bucky were. He wouldn’t go back to that time if a portal opened up under his feet. This is home; the rest is history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on the [Tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com).Thank you everyone for your feedback and encouragement!

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  I'm on [Tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com). Updates forthcoming. Feedback most appreciated!


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